A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t like women, except to cook and bear children, preferably male ones.”

  “How awful.”

  Ben agreed. “The man I talked to was new enough with the Westerlands’ firm that he didn’t know any of the Westerlands, but their reputation echoed in the hallowed halls, he said. The Westerland men ruled everything and anyone they could get their hands on. One banker compared them to the Koch brothers—those guys in Kansas. Rich and powerful and controlling.”

  “But how does that explain Blythe?”

  Ben glanced over, then back to the road. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s a puzzle, a contradiction. You’re insinuating that she wanted to separate herself from the Westerlands, which—if her cousin’s account is correct—is understandable. But sometimes she seemed proud to be a Westerland. And she loved the building that her great-grandfather once raised a family in and then turned into a legendary school. She loved it; I honestly believe that. And I think she was sincere in her efforts—as ill-founded as they were—to restore it to the way it was twenty-five or thirty years ago: a pristine institution for young women of means.”

  Ben listened, nodded slowly. “You’re right. It’s difficult to figure out how—in that bundle of contradictions—anyone will be able to pull out a reason why someone might want to kill her.”

  They played with the jumbled, confusing facts as they knew them, the complicated woman they knew—and didn’t know—finding little in them that brought logic or sense to her murder.

  Then Nell remembered her original question. “So, where is her will?”

  “It’s with the firm she transferred her affairs to. We’ll get it in the next day or two.”

  “Has Bob seen it?”

  “He will. He’s coming back up tomorrow or Friday. We’ll set up some meetings. Jerry needs to talk to him again. More questions, along with the hope that some answers he gives might lead somewhere. Father Northcutt talked to him today before he left. He suggested they put together some kind of memorial for her. Bob thought that was a good idea. They’re going to finalize those details when he comes back.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I like him.” Ben brought the car to a stop, allowing several joggers to cross the road. “At first I was put off a little. Maybe it’s because I expected to see more sadness in him.”

  Yes, there was that. “Izzy mentioned that, too. He was friendly, but she couldn’t figure out what was beneath that top layer.”

  “Izzy is very observant when she gets in her lawyer mode.” Ben pulled into the parking lot at the edge of the artists’ colony. “Some people don’t wear their emotions on their sleeves, and I think he’s one of those people. And Blythe was complicated. By the end of our meeting, I figured he cared. And he’s a sailor. If there’s time, Sam and I will take him out. He’d love to meet the Hinckley, he said. That’s in his favor, too.”

  They walked together beneath the clear sky, lamplight guiding their way down Canary Cove Road to the Brewster Gallery. The pleasant weather had brought out more people than usual on a Wednesday night. Maybe they weren’t the only ones who heeded the e-mail about Josh’s paintings and decided to take a peek before the weekend traffic.

  Or maybe they were all trying to act as if things were normal in Sea Harbor. It was a safe seaside town. And whoever had ended Blythe Westerland’s life in such a tragic way was long gone from the town and, hopefully, even the earth. Nell waved at Don and Rachel Wooten, walking across the street to the gallery.

  They could hope.

  Josh didn’t have enough paintings yet to have an official show, Jane had said, but she wanted people to get a taste of what he could do, so she was highlighting a few oil paintings in the small room off the main gallery area. Whet people’s appetites, she said.

  Nell knew Jane well. She was always thinking of the artists’ colony she and Ham had founded all those years ago, but even more, she was thinking of the artists who lived and worked there. Another motivation in staging a middle-of-the week invitation would be to help the other galleries, to fill them with visitors if she could, to help the artists now, before the long months when winter closed the galleries weeknights—and some during the day.

  They spotted Cass a block ahead, heading in the same direction. Beside her, Harry Winthrop lowered his head, leaning in to catch whatever Cass was saying.

  “Looks like we won’t be the only ones there,” Ben said.

  “Mary Halloran’s birthday is coming up. Cass wanted to get her mother a painting of a fisherman.”

  Ben laughed. “Mary has even more of those than I do.” He took Nell’s hand, wrapped it in his larger one. “So, what do we think of this Harry fellow?”

  Nell could see Cass’s hands moving as she talked, explaining, directing. “I don’t know. He’s handsome. He takes Cass to nice restaurants. His place in Boston has a plumbing problem or something, so he’s stuck here for a while. And none of us can get a good reading on him from Cass. Her feelings are safely hidden beneath that stubborn Irish facade of hers.”

  Ben listened, more amused than concerned.

  Ham Brewster met them at the gallery door, a cup of coffee cradled in his large hands. He clapped Ben on the back. “Glad you’re here. I think you’ll like this guy’s work.”

  “He can’t like it too much, Ham,” Nell warned.

  “You can always build an addition.” Ham lifted one bushy eyebrow and stroked his beard.

  Nell glowered at the gallery owner, then followed it up with a hug. “Let’s go see what I’ve heard Jane rave about.”

  They walked toward the adjoining room, its center wall displaying several paintings, all by Josh Babson. Small strategically placed lamps highlighted each painting.

  Several people were grouped around them, quietly admiring the new artist in town.

  Nell looked around. Harry and Cass were standing near a refreshment table talking to Jane. Others milled around the gallery, in and out of the three rooms, admiring the eclectic art Jane and Ham represented. The Brewsters’ own paintings and pottery were in their usual niches and cubbyholes, always changing and always coveted and quickly purchased.

  “Where’s the artist?” Nell asked Ham.

  “He’ll be back. He went out to grab a sandwich. Josh isn’t the most sociable artist in the Cove, but he promised to show up.”

  “But you like him?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, look for yourself.” He pointed toward the exhibit.

  It wasn’t what Nell was asking, and both she and Ham knew it. But it was a better answer for now. She moved through the wide archway into the space that had been arranged for Josh’s paintings.

  The space in front of the paintings had cleared, and Ben and Nell stood several feet apart looking at a series of small seascapes, all oil paintings, and all showing a breadth of color and light and unexpected emotion. From painting to painting, the vibrant sea changed in personality, from a golden, pink-streaked dawn with the silhouettes of two fishermen on the side; to another focusing on a still sailboat, the light seeming to come from the sails themselves; to dark, foreboding swirls at night, softened only so slightly by a sliver of moonlight.

  Nell looked at Ben. He was concentrating on the smaller paintings with a familiar glint in his eye. He was becoming immersed in the sea he loved. It was the look that most often led to having to clear space on an Endicott wall.

  Nell sighed and moved a few steps over to a larger painting at the end of the row, framed simply in a polished maple frame.

  It was stunning. A majestic, fierce sea with a brilliant burst of light above the swells, so bright it caused one to squint or blink, blurring the images around it.

  Nell took a step back and looked again, her eyes adjusting to the light. The images at the edge of the sea slowly came into focus: a mound of gray,
rugged rocks—romantic and sinister at once.

  Familiar boulders, familiar angles, flat and sharp, with just a faint shadow of an old boathouse at the edge of the painting.

  A scene that she knew only too well. One she might not have recognized, had it not so recently turned her dreams into terror.

  Chapter 22

  N ell felt his presence before he spoke.

  “You recognized it.” Josh Babson stood near her, just a step behind, out of her vision.

  It was clear, undisguised. Magnificent in the color and contrast. Of course she recognized it. It was the same spot that had been photographed and splashed around Sea Harbor for days, fuzzy newspaper photos, iPhone shots on social media sites. Live television shots.

  But this painting was beautiful, mesmerizing.

  “You’re talented,” Nell said. Her thoughts were muddled. Did he paint this last weekend? Before Blythe was barely a statistic? She wondered if he could read her thoughts and sense the emotion that caused her arms to chill beneath the cotton sweater.

  “Jane chose this painting,” he said, but without the touch of apology Nell half expected. “She wanted it included in the exhibit.”

  “You’ve put much feeling into your art,” Nell said.

  “What was it Picasso said? ‘Art brushes away the soul’s dust.’”

  Nell considered his words. “Is your soul dusty, Josh?” she asked. Their voices were low, almost intimate, and Nell kept her eyes on the painting as she talked and listened, waiting. Like a priest in a confessional, she thought. Protected in that dark private space, not seeing each other’s face, where honesty wasn’t as difficult as it was face-to-face. She could feel Josh’s smile and she heard his short, humorless laugh.

  “I suppose we all have a bit of dust on us,” he said.

  The crowd around them grew, and Nell stepped back to allow others to stand in her space. Josh was soon swallowed up by well-wishers and possible collectors, many asking when there’d be a bigger show.

  Nell watched as the artist shoved his hands in his pockets, smiled politely, and as soon as he could, slipped into a quiet spot where he stood against a wall, watching reactions to his art silently, without the annoyance of chatter.

  “What do you think?” Cass asked, coming up beside Ben.

  “He’s talented. I like them.”

  “Me, too. I’m buying the Sea at Dawn painting for Ma. She’ll see all sorts of spiritual things in the light, like the Mystical Body and all that. I’m not sure what she’ll do with the two fishermen on the side, but for sure one is my pa.”

  Ben chuckled and looked over at the painting. “Good for Mary Halloran. She’s my choice for an art critic any day.”

  “Harry, do you like art?” Nell asked the mustached man standing near Cass. He was positioned with his back to the exhibit, looking uncomfortable, moving from one foot to another.

  Harry seemed to consider the question, then said, “No, not the way people who go to galleries like this do. I guess Babson’s paintings are good, at least from the look on people’s faces. But I can’t really tell the difference between them and something I’d buy at Target. They’re all pretty pictures.”

  “He’s here under protest,” Cass said. “I couldn’t even get him to look at the paintings. He wanted to watch the game at the Gull. So we compromised. First the exhibit, then the last four innings of the Sox game.”

  “How’s the house coming?” Ben asked.

  “Okay, I guess. Lots of work. Lots of decisions. I hoped to hurry it up, but no luck. I’m stuck for a while.”

  “Sea Harbor isn’t a bad place to be stranded,” Nell said.

  “No, I suppose not.” He slipped an arm around Cass.

  Cass looked surprised at the gesture, then glanced at her watch. “Time to go. We don’t want to miss the eighth-inning singing of ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

  Nell watched them leave.

  Ben saw her watching them through the gallery windows and came up beside her. “Ours is not to wonder why . . .”

  “I guess not.” Nell continued to watch them walk down the road. “What do you think? Does Cass like him?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Ben.

  The gallery door opened again a minute later, and Barrett and Chelsey Mansfield walked through, Barrett in his three-piece suit and Chelsey in tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater. She looked relaxed and without the worried lines so noticeable when Nell had last seen her.

  Jane had greeted the newcomers and Nell watched as they chatted pleasantly near the door about the weather, the exhibit, a new gallery opening up. Barrett, as was his way, stood at his wife’s side, unaware of any glances, any attention his formidable presence brought, simply being there for his wife. He looked content. Happy, even, without the no-nonsense business manner that was often evident at board meetings.

  He was valuable to the board, often bringing astute business advice at needed moments, the same kind of expertise Nell presumed made him so successful in his businesses. It was simple and unpretentious, and always helpful. He was generous, too, a trait board members sometimes lacked. She suspected his donations were considerable, and he and Chelsey had brought a whole entourage to the school party.

  Nell’s thoughts wandered back to that night, to watching Barrett graciously attend to their guests and the crowd and the introductions. Chelsey had been the quiet one that night, standing back, watching the crowd, but not joining it.

  Until she collided with Blythe in the school hallway.

  The scene came back to Nell with such force that it startled her. It had been buried somewhere in the confusion of the days and the fear in the town as people looked over their shoulders, searching for someone, anyone, who looked or acted suspiciously. For a murderer walking among them.

  The Chelsey she had listened to from behind the school’s lounge door that night was not the woman standing beside her husband in the Brewster Gallery. That Chelsey had been strident, her voice harsh and filled with anger. That Chelsey had hurtled a threat through the quiet hallway of Sea Harbor Community Day School—one aimed directly at Blythe Westerland.

  The couple spotted Ben and Nell and walked over to them, greeting them cordially.

  Nell took the glass of wine Ben handed her and concentrated on the amber liquid, as if hiding her thoughts from Chelsey Mansfield.

  Tonight’s Chelsey was intelligent, pleasant, a good wife and nurturing mother. Not the woman who had threatened Blythe Westerland with words made of steel and coated in anger—and hatred.

  “Have you seen Josh’s work before?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Barrett admitted.

  “We’re fans, though, sight unseen,” Chelsey said. “Our daughter likes Josh very much. He’s a good teacher, good to the children. I’m sure Anna wasn’t the only one that Josh bolstered up and made feel good about herself.”

  Beside her, Barrett’s somber nods showed agreement. “He seemed to know, as we do, that Anna is an amazing child with unique needs,” he said.

  Nell looked up at the emotion in his voice. A slight catch as he mentioned his daughter’s name.

  “Maybe more rational decisions will be made going forth,” Chelsey said beside him. Her manner was gracious, but her message was clear. “Good teachers need to be valued, not cast aside for personal reasons.”

  Barrett looked slightly uncomfortable with the conversation. He sipped his wine in silence, and seemed relieved when Ben switched the talk to more neutral topics—the upcoming concert at the school, a sailing class for adults at the yacht club that Chelsey wanted to take. Nell listened with half an ear, focusing on Barrett watching his wife. His look was guarded, but she saw something else in his deep, intelligent eyes. A look of devotion—a look of clear, unadulterated love for this woman and, she had no doubt, for his child. Having that child be played like a pawn—if Angelo was correct—would
be an unbearable hurt.

  Minutes later Barrett suggested they wander over to the exhibit. “We need to relieve Anna’s sitter soon, and we promised our daughter a full report on Josh’s paintings when we get home.”

  Nell sipped her wine, watching them move across the room. From his shadowy post on the other side of the room, Josh spotted the couple, too, and came toward them. He greeted them with a handshake, a few words, and not much else. His usual way, Nell was beginning to realize, and she felt some relief that she wasn’t the only one who brought out the artist’s laconic nature.

  “People are enjoying his work,” Ham said, coming up beside them. He gave Nell a bear hug.

  She laughed. “Thanks, dear Ham. I needed that hug.”

  “Anytime, no charge.” Ham Brewster was a teddy bear—big and sometimes boisterous, his gray-streaked beard bushy and his clothes usually smudged with some palette of whatever paint colors he was using. “An artist’s badge of honor,” he’d say.

  Nell loved him dearly, paint smudges and all. “What’s your assessment?” she asked, nodding toward the exhibit.

  Ham scratched his beard, looking from Nell to the paintings and back. “That depends, Nellie. Are you asking about the artist or the paintings?”

  Ben laughed. “You know her well, Ham.”

  Nell smiled. “Okay. Paintings first.”

  “He’s good. I think most of those who came tonight think so, too.”

  They all looked over, scanning the looks on people’s faces. The crowd had ebbed and flowed, but right now most people had moved to the refreshment table. Barrett and Chelsey stood side by side, not speaking, carefully taking in each painting. Now and then one would murmur a word or two to the other, then move on to the next.

  Finally they stood as one in front of the large painting at the far end of the wall. Jane’s pick. The painting that had caused Nell to close her eyes, to catch her breath, and to come back to it more slowly.

  She couldn’t see their faces, but she saw Barrett’s arm wrap slowly around Chelsey’s waist, his suit sleeve a dark band against the soft golden cashmere of her sweater.